


As Above, So Below

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fallen Angels, M/M, Mythology References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 15:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: Grantaire has to make a decision--pick up the gun in front of him, and join his friends in facing down the Fallen that control Paris, or run away.  It would be a far easier decision if he didn't love all his friends, especially Enjolras, the Fallen he helped shape but who long ago outgrew him.  Les Mis Halloween Exchange fic for Opens-Up-4-Nobody.





	As Above, So Below

**Author's Note:**

> Many of the world-building elements in this are taken from the lush world of the Dominion of the Fallen books by Aliette de Bodard. I've changed and tweaked some things, but I definitely owe her credit for a lot of the impetus. This was originally much longer, but a computer crash ate the original, and I thought since you don't like fic much maybe shorter would be better. I hope you enjoy at least some of it, and that you have a beautiful Halloween!

_As Above, So Below_

Grantaire stares down at the gun on the table.

Who left it for him? One of the Amis, surely. One of the people who is currently outside, planning their victory, preparing for their possible defeat.

Was is Feuilly who left it? Feuilly is the practical sort, so very human in all ways. He's the type who would see that Grantaire had no weapon and decide to give him one. Though Feuilly is also the type who would see that Grantaire isn't using it and take it _away_, so perhaps it wasn't him.

Bahorel? Bahorel is always ready for a fight, and also fiercely protective of those he considers his friends, as is the nature of most _loup-garou_. Grantaire can hear an eager, carrying howl that causes the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Bahorel _would_ have left a gun, if he'd thought about it. But Grantaire doesn't think he would have thought of it, not with the energy of the maybe-revolution gathering around them.

Jehan had been dragged out in Bahorel's wake, the two of them inextricably tied in a way that has always made little sense to Grantaire. Since Grantaire is neither loup nor fae-touched, he supposes that's only appropriate.

Combeferre had been the one to provide the guns. For a Fallen who swears he will heal any who need it, no matter their allegiances, he came remarkably well-armed to this conflict that will almost certainly leave many dead. His eyes had been haunted as he swung open the crate that held the guns, but Courfeyrac's hand had been swift to land on Combeferre's shoulder, and Enjolras had smiled at him.

Enjolras has such a winning smile. It's absolutely beautiful, the pinnacle of Grantaire's hopes and dreams.

It should be. It was Grantaire who helped to craft it, after all. Seven years, eight months, and four days ago, Grantaire was granted the terrible, beautiful privilege of helping a Fallen into mortal form, and he had done his best. He had helped the twisting, writhing mass of wings and eyes and feathers and blood become a beautiful man. A man who could smile, and have people listen; a man whose voice commanded respect.

A man who could have been _safe_, if he had elected to be. A man who could have either joined one of the already-established Fallen enclaves and made a name for himself there, or a man who could have tried to eschew politics completely and just _survived_. No, not survived—_thrived_. With his magic and his looks, he could have been _anything_, if he wanted to be.

Grantaire takes a long drink, because he knew from the moment Enjolras first spoke that the easy path was not the one he would walk.

_There should be justice. There _will_ be justice. Above, below... there will be justice._

The words are indelibly seared into Grantaire's mind, though the language they were spoken in has been dead a thousand years. The angel who would become Enjolras—who Grantaire would _name_ Enjolras, because a French name fit the French form and because he couldn't resist having at least _part_ of Enjolras' name reflect what he was—spoke before becoming human. He spoke while still halfway between words, and Grantaire knows those words were the reason for his Fall.

There will be _justice_.

Enjolras believes it so very strongly. He believes that it is a travesty how people are punished for situations beyond their control—or, rather, how _certain_ people are punished, while others run rough-shod over the world. Grantaire agrees with him! He has always agreed with his friends on that point.

What he hasn't been able to agree with them on—what he _wishes_ he could believe, what he _almost_ believes when Enjolras speaks—is that they can do anything about it.

He finishes his drink and looks at the gun again. Bossuet was the one who left it, he finally recalls. There had been a terrible quip about not throwing away a good shot, and an attempt to wrap Grantaire's fingers around the grip, and then the others had left to their task.

Leaving Grantaire to stew, and think, and drink, and wish he were anywhere other than here. Except he _could_ leave—the others would be so bitterly disappointed, but he _could_ leave.

All he'd have to do is rise from his table, and leave the gun, and head for the door.

All he'd have to do is abandon everyone he loves, all these foolish people who think the world can be a better place.

All he has to do is push the memory of those words away, and he can get up and walk somewhere he will not die.

All he has to do is betray the one thing he has clung to, over the years—the belief that even if he can change nothing, even if nothing lasts, he can love people and have _that_ matter.

The door to the cafe opens, and Grantaire turns away. He doesn't want to see which of his friends has come to check on him. He doesn't want to have to articulate anything.

There are no footsteps, the individual moving too stealthily even without trying, and Grantaire's heart sinks. There is only one person in their group so certain of his body, and there is no way he will ever understand why Grantaire is here rather than helping them.

Enjolras doesn't say anything. He just comes to stand beside Grantaire, lantern-light casting his shadow across Grantaire's face.

Finally Grantaire can take the silence no longer. He turns his face up to the too-beautiful face of the Fallen who leads them and smiles bitterly. "Well, out with it. Tell me I'm a disappointment. Tell me I'm to leave."

"If you disrupt what comes, then I will. If you threaten the lives of those who entrust themselves to us—to me—then I will have no choice." Enjolras frowns. "But I would much rather..."

Grantaire would have to stand up to get more to drink, and he doesn't know if he could. "You would rather what?"

"I would rather you tell me that you are capable." There's a wistful quality to Enjolras' voice that Grantaire hasn't heard often. "I would rather you ask me for another chance."

"You're going to _die_." Grantaire hisses the words, not wanting to frighten or scare any of the people outside. He believes Enjolras about being cast from this place if he threatens the people defending it.

"We survived 1830." Enjolras' shoulders move in a motion that could be a shrug, or could be a loosening of his muscles for battle.

"So did Morningstar." Grantaire grimaces as he names the Fallen who has kept control of this land alongside various human puppets for centuries. "Why should today be any different?"

"Because every day is different. Because always there is a chance, and today that chance is _good_." Enjolras reaches out, gently, to lay a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "I do not risk lives easily, Grantaire. You know that."

Grantaire does, but he is still afraid. He is so very, very afraid, and shouldn't he have stopped being afraid some time ago? Shouldn't he be afraid of just _one_ outcome, just _one_ action, rather than _all of them_?

His breath comes as a bitter gasp on the verge of tears, and Grantaire puts a hand in front of his face.

Enjolras keeps his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, settling down on his heels so that his face is lower than Grantaire's. "The others have all bound their magic to me—to our group, our cause. Would you be willing to do the same?"

Grantaire freezes. "How—" His breath stops, and for a moment he feels himself slipping, becoming something colder and harder than a man should be. He arrests the change, not wanting it to continue. He has become used to living hot and fast. "I don't—I told you nothing."

"You _shaped_ me, Grantaire." Enjolras looks up into his eyes, and there is something different in the blue, something Grantaire had not expected. He had thought Enjolras would be annoyed with him, or angry, or despairing of Grantaire ever being more than he is. Instead... there is _hope_ in those blue eyes, a compassion that Grantaire knows he didn't put there.

"No." The word grates out of Grantaire's throat. "I helped you through the first few days, but this man you are... this Fallen... I was not the one who made this man."

"Not alone." Enjolras' lips quirk up into the tiniest smile. "But no person is shaped alone. And others have left their mark on me, yes. Combeferre's mercy, Courfeyrac's warmth, Feuilly's breadth of compassion and concern—all have changed me. All are _bound_ to me. But at my core..."

Grantaire shivers, seeing something older than Enjolras could possibly be in suddenly ice-blue eyes—seeing the ghost of the angel-that-was, the being who was cast out of whatever Heaven angels come from. Licking his lips, Grantaire whispers the words. "_There will be justice_."

"There will be justice." Enjolras repeats the words in French, squeezing Grantaire's shoulder, his smile suddenly young and fierce and full of conviction. "Above, below, _everywhere—_there will be justice."

"There can't be, sometimes." Grantaire reaches up to lay a hand across Enjolras' fingers. "Sometimes the wrongs are too old, or the hurts too deep. Sometimes the very heavens themselves are unjust."

"Then new heavens are needed." Enjolras tosses his head, a lion or a wild stallion, ready to fight the very fabric of the universe.

And Grantaire... damn him, but Grantaire wants to see him do it. He _believes_, just for a moment, that Enjolras and their little group of dreamers could reshape the world to be kinder. To brim with warmth, and belonging, and companionship.

Should he even want that world? Once, before he was cursed to wander, before he spent so long playing at being human... yes. It was different, but yes, there was enough similarity in his world-that-was for him to want to see Enjolras' world-that-could-be come to pass.

"I don't know..." Grantaire draws another shaking breath, looking up at Enjolras' lips. "I don't know if I _can_."

"Oh, come now." Enjolras places his other hand on Grantaire's knee. "Where's the confidence with which you usually tell me you can accomplish a task? Where's the fierce determination that you can be what you wish to be?"

"Buried." The word is blunt, and it wipes the smile from Enjolras' face.

"Then let us see if we can find it resurrected." Enjolras' words are quiet, but they strike with force. "What could I do to help?"

"Just... be yourself." Grantaire laughs, and it's an incongruous sound here, in these circumstances. He studies Enjolras' lips again. "And perhaps... if you wouldn't hate the idea... let me kiss you?"

Enjolras' head tilts slightly to the side, and then his lips part in a small, conciliatory smile. "Done."

Leaning forward, Grantaire presses his lips to Enjolras. He has dreamed of this, for a long time. It was a _safe_ dream, one he could allow himself without much fear, unlike all the other dreams Enjolras strives to plant. It lives up to the dream, too, Enjolras' lips firm and full, Enjolras' skin beautifully warm against his.

Pulling back, Grantaire bites hard at his lip, drawing blood. Then he presses their lips together again, smearing his blood across Enjolras' mouth.

When he pulls back this time, Enjolras stands. He reaches up to touch his mouth. "Are you certain?"

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras' tongue flicks out, licking up the blood, and Grantaire feels the world _lurch_ around him.

The others are all bound already. Even Marius and Cosette, Eponine and Gavroche are bound into the web that connects the harbingers of the revolution.

Some are all fierce, flickering fire—Bahorel, the loup ready to charge, to defend his territory. From him Enjolras draws a superhuman alertness, and feeds it to the others.

Some are pure potential, the magic inherent in the air and the stone under their feet and the water that Paris has tainted all blindingly loud—Prouvaire, and he, too, eagerly feeds into the web.

Some are only mortal, but their mortal hands are quick, their thoughts better able to resist the call of the magic and stay focused. Feuilly, Courfeyrac—they are an integral part of this web, too.

Some are close to but not quite mortal—and of course Bossuet has the ghost of a luck spirit in his veins, of course Joly has the touch of a goddess' healing lips diluted down through the ages. They give what shadows of power they can, and their humanity, too, is a wondrous gift.

Some are Fallen, and they blaze with power, the pure distillation of faith and miracles that this land has given birth to. Combeferre, Enjolras—Grantaire shivers as their power is shared with him.

And Grantaire—he is something else entirely. He is skin that can become stone, blood vessels that will heal themselves closed. He is from another land, but he has walked the streets of Paris long enough—has loved Enjolras long enough—that his magic happily joins the web, providing protection that will hopefully be enough.

Those they will be fighting are just as prepared, though. They have spun themselves a web as well, and if it is not as eclectic, it is just as powerful.

Grantaire flinches back. He doesn't remember coming outside, though he can still feel the heat of Enjolras' hand on his elbow.

Enjolras who is ahead of him now, who turns back with a calm, certain expression on his face. "There will be justice. And mercy. And _hope_. So fly with us, Grantaire."

The Fallen cannot fly. To survive in the mortal world they take mortal shape, and unless that shape is something small—a bat, a bird—then the Fallen cannot fly.

Grantaire would swear that Enjolras has wings as he sprints to join the fray. He would swear that Enjolras flies, his steps so swift and light as he directs people with his voice and his magic.

Grantaire takes his gun and finds himself a space by Bossuet and Joly, a vantage point where they can try to take some of the strain of combat off those who are more adept at wading into the fray.

Joly sniffles, a cold making his words sound awkward even before the acrid gunpowder taint to the air is factored in. "You're not human, then?"

"No." Grantaire fires at a human soldier who thought sneaking up on Bahorel would be a good idea. It was probably in the lad's best interest to die simply like this.

"Not that it matters." Bossuet also takes a shot. "But it's good to know these things about your friends."

"It's been so long I had nearly forgotten." The words aren't true, but there's a germ of truth buried within them. It had been too long since he tried; it had been too long since he _hoped_.

Now they give hope wings.

Now they fight, and when the smoke and the dust are cleared... when Enjolras has finished putting down the first of the Fallen...

There will be justice one day, above and below.

And if Enjolras lives to see it, Grantaire will be right there at his side, sharing in the dawn of a new day.


End file.
